Tea With Mycroft
by LyricalSinger
Summary: Instead of fish and chips, Mycroft and John meet over tea and biscuits


Tea With Mycroft

While he may have been speaking facetiously when he said "We meet up every Friday for fish and chips," in actual fact Mycroft's statement to Sherlock wasn't too far from the truth. It wasn't _every_ Friday, and it certainly wasn't for fish and chips (think of the damage fried food could do to his never-ending battle with his waistline). Still, Mycroft and John Watson did meet up on a regular basis at a small tea shop located on a quiet street that ran along the perimeter of Regent's Park.

The first meeting was a bit of a disaster, if Mycroft had to be honest. He'd not seen John since Sherlock's funeral two weeks prior. Well, he'd not seen John in person but he was keeping a weather eye on the man via CCTV and updates from both Mrs. Hudson and Greg Lestrade.

John was grieving the loss of his friend and was obviously filled with self-recrimination. Concerned about the doctor, Mycroft decided that the time had come to take matters into his own hands.

Late afternoon on a Friday, as John was making his way through Regent's Park on his daily walk enforced on him by a worried Mrs. Hudson, he came face-to-face with the British Government.

"Mycroft," said the doctor as he came to a standstill. "To what do I owe the _pleasure_?" The tone in the doctor's voice was cold enough to cause frostbite in June.

"Doctor Watson. This is a surprise."

"No, it's not. Don't lie to me, Mycroft. What do you want?"

Looking down at the diminished man, Mycroft could see that John had not been doing well. There were dark circles under his eyes and his hair was greyer than Mycroft remembered. As well, the ex-Army man had a sickly pallor and looked defeated.

"You are correct, John; this is not a casual meeting. I have some information to pass on to you. If you please," and indicating the path to his left, Mycroft strolled away sure in the knowledge that John would follow. The man was nothing else if not curious.

A quiet walk of about three minutes brought the two men to a small tea shop. Opening the door, Mycroft gestured for John to precede him. They sat down at a small, round table located in the front window and as soon as they had taken their seats, a young woman appeared carrying a tray laden with tea and small delicacies.

John looked from the tea tray to Mycroft and snorted. "Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you? What if I had refused to come?"

"Well, then I'd be enjoying one of these currant scones by myself," said Mycroft as he placed one on the delicate china plate the server had left. Pouring out two cups of tea, Mycroft slid one across the table to his companion and said, "Please, Doctor, help yourself."

John glared at the tall man sitting across from him, intending to ignore the food spread out before him, but soon the comforting aroma of warm baking and the slightly floral scent of the tea caused his senses to perk up and his stomach to take notice for the first time in weeks.

Sighing deeply, John picked up the creamer and dribbled a few drops of milk into the clear brew sitting in front of him. He watched the milk and tea swirl together, becoming one homogenous entity and couldn't help but think of his departed friend. He and Sherlock were much like the tea and milk: each totally functional on their own, but put them together and something almost magical happened.

"You know, I never thought of the two of you quite in that manner," said Mycroft as he picked up his own cup and took a small sip.

Drawn out of his musings by his companion's words, John's head whipped up and he stared at Mycroft, his eyes wide and his lips pressed tight together. "Don't," he rasped. "Don't tell me what I'm thinking … only _he_ could do that."

"Apologies, John. It was not my intention to distress you," answered Mycroft, in a quiet, almost passive, voice. It was the tone of the words that made John look closely at Mycroft and what he saw surprised him. The man sitting before him was looking drawn and one could even say distressed. His blue eyes were slightly dulled and there was a small frown line between his brows.

That was the moment when John finally let go of his anger towards Mycroft. Seeing the epitome of "stiff upper lip" looking so distraught finally brought home to the grieving doctor that yes, he had lost his best friend, but the man across the table had lost his _brother_.

With a deep breath and a tiny smile sent in Mycroft's direction, John reached over and selected a scone. Mycroft simply raised his eyebrow in response, freshened their cups and the two men, _finally_ , began to talk.

They sat at the small table talking about the events of the past weeks while the sounds of the tea room swirled about them. They were so caught up in their discussion that they didn't hear the clatter of tea cups, or notice the two servers bustling around the room, or even hear the clang from the back kitchen as the baker dropped a tray on the floor.

This ambush, as John would eventually call it, was the first of many get-togethers between the ex-Army Doctor and the British Government. This little round table in this quiet, unassuming tea shop soon became _their_ little round table in _their_ tea shop. While John was never the one to initiate their meetings, which seemed to occur on a schedule he could never figure out but were always on a Friday, he soon began to look forward to seeing one of Mycroft's black cars waiting at the curb outside 221B, ready to conduct him to another tea session.

Mycroft seemed to have a sixth sense about John's mood and would order accordingly; and if John had bothered to give it any thought he probably would have been royally pissed at the amount of knowledge Mycroft seemed to have about him as well as the manner in which that knowledge was gathered.

On the difficult days, John would be greeted with comforting Earl Grey and warm scones with clotted cream. When he had had a stretch of good days, the tea was either an Assam or a Darjeeling, served with shortbread or macarons. After John had finally found a position at a large, busy clinic, Mycroft went all out: a smoky Lapsang Souchong served with smoked salmon on blinis and pear-and-almond tarts.

Through it all, the one thing that never changed was the comfort and coziness of the tea shop. Cath was always the one to serve them, Dennis was always working the counter; the tea pot and plates were always the traditional Old English Rose design and _their_ table was always waiting for them.

While John would always miss Sherlock, the time he spent with Mycroft – talking or not, depending on the day – went far towards healing his soul. John would forever say that despite having known each other for several years, he and Mycroft really only became friends over tea and biccies consumed in the best tea shop in London.


End file.
